


teamwork makes the dream work

by schism



Series: enemies, closer [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, ed continues to lie to himself: the sequel, splits from canon after s04e09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 02:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12855186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: Ed and Oswald come to an agreement.[Sequel now availablehere.]





	teamwork makes the dream work

**Author's Note:**

> in the news: local auntie agony writes something that isn't sad for once.
> 
> or, an alternative option for 4x10, since the show has been bumming me out a bit lately.

Despite new leadership at Cherry’s, the bar’s floorshow – is it called a floorshow even if it’s not cabaret? Ed's going to have to look it up later or it’s going to keep bothering him – remains the same.

Grundy remains the main attraction and Ed remains the ringmaster in their circus of blood and gore, because they still need the money.

Well, _Ed_ still needs the money, but he’s got a feeling that Lee, as much as she might mind the content of the show, doesn’t really mind the influx – the _inflow_? it's true that words come to him easier these days, but some still prove to be a problem, and in any case, aren’t those the same thing? – the influx/inflow of business and cash.

Of which she gets a more than fair share, might he add.

And it’s all thanks to Grundy.

No, scratch that – it’s all thanks to Ed since it was _his_ plan.

And a darn good one, too.

Tonight, it’s the Thursday evening set.

Ed’s favorite.

“You love me! I knew you loved me,” he shouts once the lights go on, illuminating him in the middle of the ring in his avian regalia.

The crowd goes wild, booing their shriveled little hearts out.

Par for the course, of course.

Heh.

As the crowd continues booing, Ed turns on his heel, a neat little twirl, watchful of the broken excuse of an umbrella to avoid tripping over it. However, despite his mindfulness of it, the stupid thing still manages to hit him right in the knee, the sharp tips of the exposed metal ribs leaving behind little pinpricks of pain.

Oh well.

Then again, it might come in handy for the performance.

“You don’t love me?! Get out of here!” Ed screeches to the crowd on the opposite side of the ring, holding his leg at the angle he’s seen Oswald hold his own a million times, shoulders squared the same way Oswald’s are when he's furious.

It’s hard not to enjoy the reaction of the public, hard not to bask in their shared disdain for the man whose – _who’s_? no, it’s _whose_ , that possessive, he’s relatively sure – _whose_ caricature he’s portraying.

Then again, is it really a caricature if it’s the truth?

Maybe a satire, then. Or a parody.

Depends on semantics, really.

“You don’t love me?!” he demands, turning again to face the people on his right.

The crowd boos enthusiastically.

Ed tries his best to hold back his grin.

It’s only when he directs his gaze towards the balcony that he sees _him_.

Well, Ed doesn’t see, exactly, because the lights pointed at him are not helping him see much of anything, not to mention the absence of glasses blurring his sight of things further than a few feet away, but still, somehow, he _knows_. Because seeing doesn't necessarily influence knowing _he’s_ there.

It’s uncomfortable, that awareness of the other’s presence.

Ed still hasn’t quite figured out how he feels about it.

How to react to it.

The bird mask is suddenly very uncomfortable, restricting his breathing as if the very air in the room is disappearing.

He can feel a trickle of sweat down his temple.

It’s always so darn hot under the lights.

Still, despite the discomfort, the show must go on – if anything, knowing Oswald hasn’t done anything yet means Ed’s rowdy audience is a far bigger threat to Ed’s wellbeing for now than he is.

Or maybe it should be ‘ _than_ _him_ ’.

Ed isn’t quite sure.

The audience continues yelling and howling, bringing his attention back to the present.

The performance.

Right.

“You don’t love me?!” Ed screams again, this time towards where he thinks Oswald might be, undoubtedly with a sour expression on his face.

Or is it simply ‘ _with a sour expression_ ’? Aren’t expressions on faces by default?

Oh, crud.

“I’m going to sic my lackeys on you! You asked for it! Get ‘em, boys! Get ‘em!” Ed continues, shaking off the irksome thought and letting the kids do their thing as he moves back to the center of the stage.

The chant begins slowly before quickly picking up speed, the audience stomping their feet on the filthy floor as they howl for Grundy.

After half a minute, the kids scram off the stage to get in position for the next bit, leaving Ed alone in the limelight – for a moment, because right on cue, the big guy climbs into the ring.

Ed sputters and twitches and spits out his lines, getting ready for the big finish even as his heart is beating far quicker than it has any right to.

And it must be because while Ed wants to, he’s still not absolutely sure he can rely – _relay_? no, no, it’s definitely _rely_ – on Grundy’s sizeable hands not accidentally slipping and snapping his neck. There’d been a few close moments in the rehearsals before they’d gotten the move right.

It’s because of that, surely.

They do the move without a hitch.

Ed goes down, the lights go out.

A hush falls over the crowd.

The costume change is quick: by now, the movements are routine.

Broken umbrella discarded; mask off, glasses and hat on; dirty jacket off, clean one on.

Once the lights go back on a minute or so later, Ed’s standing on his mark in full regalia, glittering suit and all, the attention of the crowd his to command.

“Stupid,” he starts, barely able to stop himself from laughing.

“Lame,” he adds, letting the howling and cheering of the audience – _his_ audience – wash over him.

“Bird brain!” he finishes with a flair, grinning as the crowd echoes it with gusto.

Ed waits for most of the ruckus to die down before continuing. “He’ll never learn,” he says, shaking his head to make the light play off the decorations on his hat. “You don’t mess with the Narrows!”

The crowd roars and stomps their agreement.

Ed fights the pull of looking towards the balcony, if only for a moment.

Once things are a bit quieter again, he introduces the night’s challenger, followed by the reigning champion.

It’s a wonder anybody is even willing to try and fight Grundy at this point, but with every fight they raise – _rise_? no, it must be _raise_ – the amount of prize money and with every week, another idiot approaches to get their arm torn off.

_Stop hitting yourself_ , indeed.

Ed slips back to their sad excuse of a dressing room for his break – to make his break? He’s still on the fence about making a run for it or staying right where he is. And the initial burst of adrenaline is wearing off, leaving him tired and breathless, mind spinning through the endless possibilities of how he might meet his end.

He’d known it wouldn’t last. No, after Lee took a shot at Firefly and Oswald’s ex-lackeys quit, a personal confrontation had become inevitable.

Lee had warned him, too.

Nothing to be done about it now, though.

Ed grabs the gun – a _real_ gun this time, thankfully – from the dressing table before turning.

The tapping of Oswald’s cane is unmistakable against the concrete floor.

He stops in the doorway, crossing his hands on the cane as he leans on it; the leg’s been getting worse, then, and Ed hates himself a little bit for knowing. Overall, he looks tired, smaller and far more fragile than the boogeyman version of him that still haunts Ed’s dreams.

“I knew you’d show up eventually,” Ed says, empty bravado the only thing keeping his voice steady.

“Wasn’t that what you wanted me to do?” Oswald asks, something like a hint of amusement in his eyes.

A shiver runs down Ed’s spine.

And Oswald must notice because he smiles, sharp and deceptively sweet at the same time – a dangerous smile, one that spells trouble for whoever it’s directed at.

_Directed towards?_

For whoever is on the receiving end of it, anyway.

“Oh, right, I forgot,” Oswald says, hand flying to his forehead, a pantomime not unlike Ed’s own. “You have no idea what you want.”

“ _No_ ,” Ed growls, pathetic even to his own ears. “I _do_ know what I want. I want you dead.”

Oswald smiles again, shaking his head. “If you did, you would’ve shot me already. Hell, you would’ve shot me when you showed up at the Iceberg Lounge… if it weren’t for the toy pistol, of course. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice?”

Ed can already feel a migraine building itself up somewhere behind his right eye.

“I don’t need to _shoot_ you to _kill_ you,” he says, sending Oswald off into peals – _peels_? no, it’s _peals_ – of laughter.

“Stop laughing,” Ed hisses, which only makes Oswald laugh harder.

“I’ll stop laughing when you stop embarrassing yourself,” Oswald replies between huffs of laughter. “I mean, geez, Ed, this… whatever _this_ –“ he gestures to Ed’s costume and props on the dressing table before waving his hand towards Ed’s general direction. “– is… you need to stop it, Ed.”

Ed opens his mouth to start arguing but pauses.

See, Oswald isn’t angry.

He’s _supposed to be_ angry.

Why isn’t he angry?

“Why aren’t you angry?” Ed asks, and Oswald stops chuckling, looks at him with the smallest hint of a crease between his brows.

There’s something uncomfortable in that gaze, something that makes Ed want to turn away and hide if only to stop Oswald looking at him like that.

“Is that why you insist on putting this excuse of a _show_ on? To piss me off? Trust me, I’m angry enough. But… it’s time to move on, old friend. _You_ need to move on. Or do you _want_ me to kill you?” Oswald replies, another small huff of laughter escaping from his throat. “Or… I can put you on ice again, if that’s what you want. Either works for me.”

Ed considers his response for a moment. “If you know _so much_ about moving on, why did you come here, _Oswald_?” he retorts, but the question feels empty, a childish and clumsy emulation at – _an_ _emulation of?_ – who he used to be.

Still, it manages to hit a nerve, because Oswald’s smile falls. “I wanted to see your ‘show’ for myself. Not really your best work, in my humble opinion, but the crowd seems to eat it up,” he says casually, but his knuckles are tight and pale over the handle of his cane. “I also came here to collect you. This, this… _slumming_ thing you’re doing, it stops now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with _you_ ,” Ed replies, clenching his teeth and rising – _raising_ , darn it – _raising_ the gun he’d forgotten about even though it was in his hand this whole time.

Curse his useless, sluggish brain.

“I’m not trying to kidnap you,” Oswald says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I’m simply here to offer an olive branch.”

An olive branch?

What’s he going to do with a tree branch?

Wait…

Oh.

Ed lowers the gun ever so slightly once again. “Why?” he asks simply, trying – and failing – to find the answer in the other’s demeanor.

“Because you’re better than this?” Oswald offers, although the compliment is very much undercut by the tone of his voice.

Ed narrows his eyes.

“Because… oh, _fine_. Because I was recently betrayed by someone I thought I could trust, which reminded me of an old platitude.”

“ _Teamwork makes the dream work_?” Ed asks, frowning, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop himself.

Oswald just stares. “What are you... No. _Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,_ obviously. Since you’re so intent on forcing us to be enemies, I want you back where I can keep an eye on you.”

Ed opens his mouth to argue that he has no intention of being frozen again, or of being another one of Oswald’s lackeys for that matter, but Oswald stops him with a raised hand before he can get a word out.

“Not necessarily as an ice sculpture. Although that depends on you, Ed,” he says, smile softer now, almost friendly.

A part of Ed’s mind is whispering encouragement, whispering that he should _accept the offer_ and _get going already_ , because this place is – frankly, these _people_ are – beneath him.

Ed fights the sudden urge to smile back.

Darn muscle memory.

“And what if I say no?” he asks instead, halfway to crossing his arms before remembering the gun.

Right.

He’s making a blunder out of this whole thing.

Still, he doesn’t want to put the gun down just yet, so he just lets his arms fall back to his sides.

Oswald purses his lips and shrugs. “What do you think will happen? It’s either this or something _very_ unpleasant…”

_Trailing off to leave room for the imagination – a good trick. And nicely done, too._ The moment Ed thinks it, he wants to kick himself.

Oswald is terrible.

Ed hates Oswald.

So, he avoids addressing the train of thought by parroting the words Oswald had said a few minutes ago – “If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done it a long time ago.”

Oswald looks at him again with that… that… _look_.

Ed does his best not to squirm under the scrutiny.

Heh.

_Squirm_ and _scrutiny_.

An alliteration, if memory serves.

“Maybe you’re not so dumb after all,” Oswald is saying; a flash of pride and warmth runs down Ed’s spine before he remembers where he is and who he’s talking to.

_Still seeking_ his _approval? Pathetic,_ the part of his mind that sounds an awful lot like the Riddler whispers. _Then again, he could be useful_.

It does have a point, even if it neglects to elaborate on how exactly going with Oswald would be useful.

Wait…

If it’s Oswald’s fault that Ed is as he is right now, shouldn’t it also be his responsibility to fix whatever is wrong? His _duty_ , even?

_(Isn’t that more or less the same thing?)_

Ed’s pretty sure it is.

And he’s pretty sure he can find a way to manipulate Oswald into helping him get smart again.

So, perhaps the best decision would be to accept this offer. Certainly, it’s the most useful one in the long plan because it’s been almost a month and Lee has been spectacularly unhelpful about the whole getting-smart-again thing.

To go with Oswald is a _smart_ decision, then, in more ways than one.

And it would mean Ed will be smart again in no time.

Right after he comes up with a way to frame his con… con…

His _term_ for accepting the offer.

“Let’s say I agree to go with you. What do I get out of it?” Ed says, relatively confident that whatever request he gives will be fulfilled.

Probably.

Oswald raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. “Well, if you come peacefully, I _won’t_ kill you. How about that?”

“Don’t make me say it again, Oswald. Because I will,” Ed replies. “I know you won’t kill me.”

Oswald sighs. “Believe me, I want to, right now more than ever. But fine. What do you want?” he says with a tight smile.

To frame it in an inconspicuous way…

“I want you to make me smart again,” Ed blurts out and nearly slaps himself.

Oh, crud.

There goes the plan, down the drain. So much for subtlety.

Oswald huffs another laugh. “I… You know what? Sure, I’ll do my best to ‘ _make you smart again’_. I guess I’ve sunken low enough at this point. But I do have a condition of my own, if we’re making demands.”

_Condition! That’s what the word was,_ Ed thinks before the other words fully register.

“What is it?” he asks, dreading whatever the answer is going to be: something humiliating, no doubt.

“Admit that you miss me,” Oswald says simply, no hint of a smile on his face.

In fact, he looks surprisingly serious.

“I…” Ed starts.

Oswald’s eyebrows rai– _rise_ a fraction of an inch.

Ed tries to cross his arms and finds the gun in the way yet again. _Darn_ … _thing_. After a moment of consideration, he crosses his arms anyway, leaving the gun dangling uselessly next to his left elbow.

The gun’s probably empty anyway, considering his luck.

“I won’t _lie_ ,” Ed says, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Oswald narrows his eyes in return. “I’m not asking you to. But suit yourself. Goodbye, _Ed_ ,” he says and turns to leave.

Ed grits his teeth.

The _smart_ decision.

The greater good.

Just this once.

He can say it just this once.

“…wait,” Ed manages to say, the word sounding weak even to his own ears.

But it doesn’t matter, because Oswald seems to hear it and stops.

“I… One might say that… perhaps… I… might… miss… you… a little bit,” Ed mumbles, looking at the wall.

Looking at anything but Oswald, who is…

Turning around, right now.

Of course he is.

“What was that? I’m sorry, my hearing isn’t as good as it used to be,” Oswald says, that sharp-but-sweet smile firmly planted on his face.

His stupid, condescending, arrogant face.

“You heard me,” Ed replies, half-sure that his own face is as red as a fire engine.

If anything, the words are just a futile attempt at delaying the inevitable.

Because Oswald is almost, if not as, stubborn as Ed is himself.

_As Ed himself is?_

Whatever, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Ed definitely hates Oswald right now.

“I… I miss you. A little. Okay? Is _that_ good enough for you or do you want me to shout it from the rooftops, too?” he says, doing his best not to close his eyes and hope that this is all just a bad dream.

Oswald smiles, almost genuine. “It’s a start. Meet me outside in ten minutes.”

Ed frowns for a moment before understanding.

Right.

He should probably tell the others he’s leaving.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


End file.
